Is load so pleasant?
Or has heaven hid the happiness of death,
That men may dare to live?--Now for our heroes. [_The Three approach._
O, these come up with spirits more resolved.
Old venerable Alvarez;--well I know him,
The favourite once of this Sebastian's father;
Now minister, (too honest for his trade)
Religion bears him out; a thing taught young,
In age ill practised, yet his prop in death.
O, he has drawn a black; and smiles upon't,
As who should say,--My faith and soul are white,
Though my lot swarthy: Now, if there be hereafter,
He's blest; if not, well cheated, and dies pleased.
_Anton._ [_Holding his lot in his clenched hand._]
Here I have thee;
Be what thou wilt, I will not look too soon:
Thou hast a colour; if thou prov'st not right,
I have a minute good ere I behold thee.
Now, let me roll and grubble thee:
Blind men say, white feels smooth, and black feels rough;
Thou hast a rugged skin, I do not like thee.
_Dor._ There's the amorous airy spark, Antonio,
The wittiest woman's toy in Portugal:
Lord, what a loss of treats and serenades!
The whole she-nation will be in mourning for him.
_Anton._ I've a moist sweaty palm; the more's my sin:
If it be black, yet only dyed, not odious
Damned natural ebony, there's hope, in rubbing,
To wash this Ethiop white.--[_Looks._] Pox o'the proverb!
As black as hell;--another lucky saying!
I think the devil's in me;--good again!
I cannot speak one syllable, but tends
To death or to damnation.
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